Across the Continents

Picture the scene: you've got a beer in hand, you've been out for several hours and you're dancing like you've never danced before. There's the deep sound of African drums all around you and everyone's singing the same song. Behind you is a huge float kitted out with eighteen massive speakers. On top of it are four singers, singing their heart outs.

You look up and around to take in the scene: as far as you can see there are people everywhere. You stop for a second and take off your mask. The guy dressed as a woman in front of you continues to samba away with his partner, the girls dressed in matching alice in wonderland outfits behind you continue to dance, and the guy next to you dressed as a full on Indian continues to shake his feathers. The beach is to your left, but you can't see the sand for the sea of umbrellas that line it. At the end of it a dramatic mountain rises from the sea, behind you a huge rock separates two of the worlds most famous beaches: Copacabana and Ipanema. You look at the time and realise it's 5 in the afternoon. You're at a block party and you realise that you've just sambaed the length of Ipanema beach. The party doesn't look like it's dying down anytime soon.  You try to take it all in as the sun bears down on you. You can feel the energy. You cant help but move your feet to the sound of drums and take in the intoxicating happiness of everyone around. This is Rio at it's finest.

You put your mask back on and keep going.  A couple of hours longer and you'll go home to get ready for the night.  

10pm comes. You've showered, changed, eaten a little and had a little rest. You leave your hostel and head to a different part of town. You get there and head to one of the hundred fruit cocktail stalls that line the street and every corner. Caipirinas all round. The fresh lime, three table spoons of sugar and almost half a bottle of cachaua that make up your drink provide the perfect anecdote for the scene. Everybody is drinking them.

You and your friends start to walk around. Before long you've bumped into someone you've met before travelling: remarkable given the size of the crowds. You head to the stage to listen to the music where everyone's dancing. You stay a while.

Later you're stood underneath the infamous Lapa arches chatting to friends. The boys in your group suddenly report that they have had their wallets and phones stollen. Someone snatches at one of the girls necklaces and grazes her collarbone. Someone forcefully grabs your purse out of your hand but drops it when they realise it only contains coins and lip gloss. All your paper notes are tucked safely in the side of your bra. You get your purse back.

You decide to move on somewhere else. You make your way through the crowded streets past all the samba bars to the bottom of Lapa steps, immortalised by Snoop Dog in his video. Groups of musicians entertain people and samba music spills out from the bars as you pass. You arrive at the bottom of the steps and buy another drink from one of the stalls there. You look up. People are sat everywhere. It's a cool scene but it has an edge. Child drug dealers sit on the side, watched over by eager barons. They're addicted to whatever it is they're selling- you can see it in their eyes. Its sad but this is Rio's uglier side. You move well away from them and linger for a while taking in the scene.

Eventually you move on to somewhere else. You begin to feel tired. You look at your watch it's 4am. You convince yourself you can keep going. You find some more music and stay out for another hour. By then everyone's ready to go home. You walk back in a big group and climb into bed as it's getting light. In a few hours you'll be up and starting it all over again. Only tomorrow night you'll head to the sambadrome to watch seven of the best samba schools in the world give their everything for a chance to be crowned the 2012 champion.

10th January

It's 10pm and I've been on a bus for seventeen hours already. I´m driving along a wide open road with nothing around except baron planes on either side, as far as the eye can see. The only thing I´ve passed is a scattered handful of bleak looking towns, none of which you would want to wind up in. It appears that the road to the end of the world feels like just that. The supposedly mesmerising Route 40 which brought me from Bariloche to El Calafate before this, was anything but mesmerising. Baron, wild and soulless, the windy planes rolled by almost hypnotically for thirty long hours.

Eventually, after days on the road, the landscape slowly turns to dramatic mountains. It´s 10pm and still not dark. As the light begins to fade, the bus weaves its way through a steep mountain pass. An erie mist sets in and transforms the dramatic landscape into something almost mythical: it is like a film set. This is the end of the world and it feels like I have reached it.

The bus pulls into Ushuaia, the most southern city in the world and the gateway to Antarctica. Sitting on the edge of the Beagle Channal, Ushuaia is surrounded by snow capped mountains. It is dark when I arrive and very cold. I´ve made the cardinal sin of arriving in Ushuaia without any accommodation and therefore, spend the next two hours walking around trying to find somewhere. When I do, I check in and bed down for the night.

The next day I go to see the penguins (cutely called penguinos in Spanish). As the small boat I am on approaches the secluded Martilla island, the inhabitants can be seen everywhere. The engine has been cut and everyone is silent on board, but the noise of the boat coming into shore, causes several birds to flee to the water. One-by-one everyone climbs ashore.

Two types of penguin can be found on the island. The first is the Magallanic penguin, which migrates to warmer waters during the winter. The second is the Gentoo penguin, which stays on the island all year round and can also be found in Antarctica. At the moment, there´s a special guest to steal the show: an Antartic King Penguin, almost twice as big as the others, and approximately 1000 kms away from home. He is not camera shy and takes centre stage as the group photograph him. According to our guide, he only recognises the Gentoo penguins: the Magallanic penguins are not inhabitants of Antarctica therefore they are not familiar to the King Penguin.

The group stands watching him for a while. He walks closer and without warning stretches out his neck, opens his beak and lets out a serious of loud sharp sqwarks. He listens for a response but there isn´t one. He tries again, arching his back, stretching out his wings, and craning his neck. I feel sorry for the poor guy. He huddles close to another penguin for warmth. She´s presumably female, but is only half his size. Apparently he will find his way home eventually but you can´t help wanting a cruise ship to take him back.

Next I visit the breeding nests where I delight in watching little balls of grey fluff huddle up to each other and trip and fall over one another. Protective mothers watch their young and guard the entrance to the nests where young lay sleeping. They move their head from side to side as they use both eyes to fathom you out. It is a rich breeding ground with plenty of nests around.

The following day I take a boat out in to the Beagle channel. The channel seperates Chilean and Argentinian Patagonia, and opens out into the Drake passage across which lies Antarctica. As well as the wildlife, the main attraction of the boat trip is Les Eclaireurs - the lighthouse at the end of the world. Standing on top of a small island, the red and white cone shapped lighthouse sits out amongst a backdrop of stunning snow capped mountains. It is cool to see and it feels an achievement to have made it there.

21st December

Three days before Christmas I check into a funky hostel in fashionable Punta del Este. It´s been booked since October when I decided I wanted to spend Christmas on a beach, since I would be away from home and in a hot climate. It couldn't be more different from a typical English Christmas and after two months of big cities I'm eager to set eyes on the sea and feel sand between my toes.

I check in and ask what is going on for Christmas. Fiesta! fiesta! fiesta! I'm told. Sounds perfect: that's exactly what I want.  I meet Margaux and Danni, two Australians and Vanessa from London, who are all staying for Christmas. The hostel doesn't seem to be doing anything special by way of a Christmas meal, so I suggest we all have a BBQ on Christmas day. The suggestion goes down well!

That evening I meet up with a friend, Greg and his family at a local bar. There´s live music playing and after mid-night a DJ plays some awesome crowd pleasers. Greg, Sian and I have a lot of fun and there is a serious amount of crazy dancing going on. Before we realise it is 5am and time to head home.

The next evening I'm invited to a traditional Uruguayan Christmas dinner hosted by the owners of my friends hostel. They have spent days preparing the food. It is very touching to be invited along and means I get a bit of an insight into Christmas in South America. It´s not commercialised as much as it is in England, but 'Papa Noel' still drops off presents on Christmas Eve and there is still a traditional family meal. The children open their presents at mid-night (Papa Noel has a super speedy sleigh in the southern hemisphere) after the Christmas meal. The meal is delicious: consisting of huge salads, meats, fishes, cheeses, quail eggs, delicious quiches and much, much more... One curious thing stuck in my mind: imagine a Swiss roll, but replace the jam with tuna, and coat the top with crispy pistachios. It's quite an explosion on the taste buds. South Americans like to mix their sweet and savoury. Fortunately the rest of the food was truly amazing!

After dinner, gifts appear. I try to give my friend space with his family but I'm flattered beyond belief when they present me with a little gift. I'm feeling a bit homesick and the thought and gesture are really touching.

The 'secret' beach party (so secret that it's already sold 1000 tickets) which we were going to has been cancelled without explanation. I get dropped off and realise the party at my hostel is in full swing and resembles a modest London nightclub scene. I order a cocktail and join Margaux, Danni and Vanessa.  

Several hours, very little sleep and a few skype calls later, we´re sat on the beach wearing our Santa hats with a bottle of champagne to pop! The whole of Punta seems to be on the beach and there´s a really cool vibe! In the evening we prepare dinner: roasted veg, a huge salad and marinaded chicken. Once the BBQ is lit we cook up a feast. It´s delicious! Tonight there is no all night party at the hostel, today is a much quieter celebration.  

Boxing day is another day and one, yet again, filled with lots of parties. During the day we try to find the elusive bikini beach, to no avail. On the night we head out to Moby Dicks for more fun. It's yet another crazy dancing night. As we walk home along the beach the sun comes up. I manage to get two hours of sleep before my bus departs for Buenos Aires. What a week!

1st Dec 2011

Trapped in Sucre by road blockades, I decide to fly to La Paz. At the airport I meet two Australian girls and an Irish guy who are all planning to stay at the Loki Hostel or the Wild Rover, where I have made a reservation. We share a taxi into town and on the way get talking about cycling the worlds most dangerous road: one of the must do activities here in La Paz. We decide to do it the next day, Friday, so that it's over and done with and we can have a few celebratory drinks in the evening. Mindful that we shouldn't cut corners on the cost of this activity, we opt to go with one of the most expensive but most reputable company´s in La Paz. The decision is easy - there is a girl in our hostel with serious scratches all over her face who is in need of some expensive dental work after falling off her bike the day before. There's no law governing safety standards in Bolivia, so we´re not taking any chances.

The next morning we meet our group for breakfast and set off. The starting point is an hours drive out of La Paz and roughly 4500m above sea level. As the bikes are being taken down from the roof rack, we are given padded clothing to keep us warm as there is snow on the ground. We get a one-on-one safety lesson and are shown how to use the bikes properly. The phrase "... or you will die" comes up a lot from the instructor. I don't know much about mountain biking but I can tell these bikes are the real thing. The mechanic does a last minute safety check on every bike then we´re ready to go.

The first stretch of the road is good: the road is busy and vehicles overtake at speed on blind corners, but the road is smooth and it provides the perfect conditions to get used to handling the bikes. We have 60kms to cover so this is where we get up some speed. The scenery is incredible, not that you dare look up much to enjoy it. To the right, by our side, there's a sheer drop to a bottom that cant be seen. Every now and then we pass a rusty overturned vehicle that is suspended half way down. We pull in regularly to admire the view and reform as a group. The braver fast ones are at the front and the slower ones are at the back. There is at least one person who is terrified! I'm just ahead of the middle, giving the tail end of the fast group a run for their money.

We cycle a 8km stretch uphill and I´m given another lesson in mountain biking as I methodically move through the gears. Apparently this is the only company who gives passengers the option of cycling this part of the road. Not everyone makes it though and they finish the stretch in the comfort of the safety vehicle. If that is true, I can proudly say that I'm one of only two girls to cycle the entire death road that day.

After sandwiches we begin the hard part: complete gravel and very narrow. The only way to handle it is to have faith in the bike I´m using. We hurtle along the edge passing through waterfalls, landslips and car wrecks. We pull in to be shown the narrowest part of the road - literally just wide enough for the axis of a small Bolivian car - and tragically the site of the last cycling fatality and the biggest accident in Bolivia when a bus load of commuters came off the road.

The road continues on with dramatic cliff faces at either side. We descend from snow capped mountain tops into lush green, stifling tropical jungle. At the bottom a river, a beer, a BBQ and some friendly monkeys await. We congratulate ourselves on completing the road, with only one injury amongst the group: an American who flew off on a tight corner. His wounds were well dressed by the first aiders at the scene, but the vets at the monkey sanctuary sow up his gash.

At the end of the day we load up the bikes and jump in the support vehicles. We head back up the road. I'm not sure what is more scarier - being on the bike or in the minibus. We have picked up some alcohol so we have a little celebratory party as we head back. We stop for photos on the narrowest stretch, opening the side door to look down on to a sheer drop. The wheel is about 5 cms from the edge - thank goodness our driver does this every day.

The next day I'm chatting to a girl in my dorm who tells me she did death road two weeks ago and fell off the edge...! Apparently she went down 20ms or so before managing to grab hold of a branch. Luckily she only suffered some nasty bruising... I´m glad I heard that story after I´d completed it and not before...

27th November

I´m undecided about going down a mine in Potosi when I bump into Iwan and Jess (a couple I'd met in Buenos Aires) and we decide to do it together. I´m keen to understand what the mines are like, but fully aware that in Bolivia there are no safety measures at all. The mines are run as a co-operative effectively meaning they are a free for all.

We sign up and within an hour we´re picked up from our hostel and taken to a house where we change into 'protective clothing'. This consists of a thin satin long-sleeved jacket and trousers that don't feel very protective at all. We're then given a helmet with a small gas flame torch at the front. It connects to a small pack which sits on a canvas belt around the waist. We purchase handkerchiefs to cover our mouths and minimise the dust that we will inhale.

We enter Cerro Rico mine via a tunnel with rail tracks and keep walking at the same level for fifteen minutes or so. To begin with its not as bad as I am expecting: the tunnel is quite wide and tall.  A little further in we pass some shoddy wooden scaffolding that is holding up the roof. Jess and I exchange glances and I cant help but wonder how much longer the wood will hold out.

Green mould hangs on the wall and every now and then a white crusty layer of salt appears. The smell of toxic chemicals hangs in the air, becoming more pungent the deeper into the mine we go.  We pause to check how everyone is and talk a little about what it is like working here.  Before long we move off. This time we have to crawl eight metres down a shaft to the second level. The temperature rises a little, the tunnel gets a bit smaller and the smell becomes stronger. We go down again: level three. We stop at some carts to see how these work and leave some presents for the miners: some sticks of dynamite and some drinks. Then we descend again taking great care not to fall down a huge open hole on our left. The dust increases and the pungent aroma of chemicals tastes sour on the tongue.

We pay a visit to Timo to pay our respect and offer some coca leaves. Life in the mine evolves around Timo - the devil, or down here - the god of the underworld. The miners regularly bring him offerings of coca leaves and alcohol and pray to the lord of the underworld to keep them safe in the mine. They believe this is hell and Timo should always be worshipped. Getting on the wrong side of Timo could prove fatal.

From here we walk along and exit the mine. It's a relief to get out into the open and breath fresh air again. I have a new found respect for miners - it really is hell down there. Later we find out that the average miner only lives for ten years after he enters a Bolivian mine. Many of the workers down here are young boys who have lost their fathers in the mine and have to support their family. Typically they will earn just four dollars a day... For more information watch the documentary "A Devil´s Miner".